The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

  My bitter verve had worn off by the time we left, and I felt wretched with uncertainty as we sat turned slightly away from each other on the bus. I was desperate to know the truth and, the moment we were in our apartment, I cried, “Michael, are you having an affair with Oliver? I beg you, please tell me the truth.”

  He had half unbuttoned his coat and now clasped it shut at his chest in a curiously modest gesture. We could hear our neighbour upstairs dragging something across her room. “No,” he finally replied. “No, not an affair.” He removed his coat, started towards the closet, but then tossed it over the sofa and sat on an armrest, legs stretched out. “Oliver made a sleazy pass the first time he invited me to his office. I let him kiss me. Kissed back, too. But I told him I am with you and love you. Still, it didn’t deter him from trying that shit at Satomi’s party.” He pressed his palms together between his thighs and rubbed them back and forth as if cold.

  “And yet you were planning this trip to New York.”

  “And yet I was planning this trip to New York.” Involuntarily, he nodded like Oliver, head as if on a spring.

  I went out onto the balcony. The wind was fierce and a mist had made the floor slippery. When I leaned on the top rail, I could feel dampness soaking through my coat and salt from the air forming a sticky mask on my face.

  A grim anger was taking hold of me. “I’m trying,” I said to myself. “I’m trying everything. I am trying so hard, and this is how he rewards me.” Michael did not care that I was suffering, that I was doing everything I could to mend things between us. Angry tears stung my eyes at the thought of him kissing Oliver. I felt pathetic next to Oliver’s professorship at an Ivy League university, his older-man’s finesse, the sophisticated life I imagined he could offer Michael in New York.

  The next day, Michael told me he was not going to the conference after all. For the rest of that week, he came home early every evening and cooked things I liked for dinner. He even turned down a student party. Yet none of this placated the anger I felt or the grimness with which I spoke to him now. I often just glared in response to questions he asked. I needed my rage. It was the only barrier left to throw up between me and the truth: this trip to bring my grandmother back was not going to restore my happiness. And so what occurred next took place because I couldn’t face this truth, couldn’t accept I had reached the end of the road.

  About a week later, while we were washing up after dinner, Michael reminded me that Satomi’s birthday was approaching and that he had promised a while ago he would throw a party for her in our apartment the coming Saturday.

  “That woman is not entering our home,” I declared, holding out a washed pot to him.

  He took the pot and dried it. “Satomi has nothing to do with Oliver.”

  “You think I’m an idiot, that I don’t know you told her about Oliver even before you told me? She was going to New York with you and no doubt would have aided and abetted the whole shitty thing.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “She’s always disliked me and been jealous of our relationship. I don’t want her here.”

  “Well, I’m having the party. It’s my apartment.”

  “Yes, I know.” I gave him an acid look. “I’m merely a tenant here.”

  “Shivan! Can’t we please find some way to be comfortable with each other?”

  I turned my shoulder away and continued to wash dishes.

  On Saturday morning, Michael informed me nervously we had to visit Granville Island Public Market and get provisions for the party. I looked him over with disdain. “Do you actually think I’m going to help you shop for the party of a friend I despise?”

  “Why are you like this?” he begged softly.

  “You dare to ask me that, after what you’ve done? After you were going to fuck that old sleazebag in New York? I told you the truth. Now I’m even going all the way to Sri Lanka so we can be good together. But you don’t care. You don’t notice what I do. Nothing is good enough for you.”

  After he left, I went out onto the balcony and watched him walk up Harwood Street. The stoop of his shoulders made me want to cry, yet I couldn’t control this urge to punish him. “Enough,” I kept saying to myself, “enough, enough.”

  I went for a walk along the seawall. It was the first really lovely day of spring. The temperature had risen to twenty, and a mild breeze was coming in off the ocean. Soon I had removed my jacket and tied it around my waist, sleeves slapping against my thighs as I strode along. The pathway ahead was crowded with a group of Middle Eastern families. The women pushed strollers, their burkas cracking like sails against their bodies, their unheeded warning cries to children like ululations. The men walked in front, speaking and gesticulating effusively, passing around bags of nuts and sweets with old-fashioned courtesy. A young boy on roller skates was being pulled along by a large out-of-control golden retriever, the boy pitching from side to side, in danger of going over the seawall onto the rocks below. The vendors had come out, and there was the caramelized odour of scorched hot dog buns in the air, the gunshot smell of popcorn.

  I walked for three hours, then sat down in the grass among some totem poles to take a break. By now I was sure Michael would be home, and I exulted at him finding me gone without so much as a note left behind. He would have bought fresh bagels, lox and cream cheese for lunch, as we always did at the market. It filled me with vicious pleasure to think of his worry as he sat eating, wondering what had become of me.

  Once rested, I continued on, and when I reached the other end of Stanley Park it was early afternoon. I felt like eating Thai food and wandered into a restaurant on Robson Street. While I waited for my meal to arrive, I flipped through a Georgia Straight someone had left on the seat across from mine and read the film reviews. There was nothing I wanted to see at the closest multiplex, but I decided to take a bus to Granville Street and go to whichever matinee I arrived in time for. It would be early evening when the movie finished, and by then Michael would be frantic. Yet even the thought of his panic could not sate me. Each thing I did to punish him inflamed my need to punish him further.

  I arrived home after the movie and found Satomi’s boots by the door, their soft unzipped tops gaping like open mouths. He must have told her I’d refused to host her party; she had probably rushed down to the Granville Island market and shopped with him.

  I could hear them moving stealthily about in the kitchen. “Hello,” I called out, clearing my throat.

  “Shivan,” Satomi called back, “come and taste.”

  When I entered the kitchen, she kissed me gently on the cheek. “Oh, we have been so busy.”

  Michael gave me a frightened stare then went back to cooking. Satomi held out a rice dish topped with bits of tuna, cucumber, crab and shitake mushrooms. “It’s a special dish called chirashizushi. It’s made for Girls’ Day in Japan, so we are making it for my birthday party.”

  I nodded, lips pressed together, suddenly embarrassed that she must know I didn’t want this party.

  “Would you like to try?”

  “No, but thank you.” I left the kitchen and went to my bedroom.

  Soon I heard Satomi leave the apartment, promising to be back in an hour. I had showered and dressed by then and was seated on the bed, reading. Michael came in to get ready. He gave me a quick glance, picked out the clothes he needed and went into the washroom. Once he had washed and put on fresh clothes, he came back and dumped the dirty ones in the hamper. “I’ve asked people to come at seven thirty, so they should start to arrive in half an hour.”

  I nodded, not looking up from my book. I knew he was waiting for some conversation that might lead to a temporary truce during the party. But my harsh need to punish him had grown monstrous; my anger flamed so high there was no quelling it. Eventually he sighed and went out.

  The buzzer rang at seven thirty. It was probably the four students who shared a house near Gastown and were always on time. I soon heard their gabble of greetings and emerged f
rom my seclusion.

  “Shivan!” they cried. The men shook my hand, the women hugged me. They had brought gifts for Satomi, and a moment later she walked in and let out a little shriek of pleasure at the presents they thrust at her.

  Michael had gone to get drinks, so I collected the guests’ coats and went back into the bedroom. I shut the door and sat on our bed, listening to the muffled voices. Finally, I pressed my hands on knees and pushed myself up. It took enormous effort to stand.

  The guests were seated on the sofa and chairs and had already begun one of their tedious conversations about department politics. I went to the kitchen, got myself a beer from the fridge, then leaned back against a counter. By staying out of the preparations, I had made myself a stranger in my own apartment. A student drifted in looking for ice, and I got him some. He stood across from me, talking about his problems with Student Services, asking my advice even though I worked in the President’s Office. Other students arrived and the man thankfully left to greet the newcomers.

  Soon Michael came in to get snacks. When he found me standing against the counter, he said pleasantly, “You should come out and join us.” I winced as if at an unpleasant sound. “Shivan,” he whispered pleadingly, then sighed and reached for some bowls he had stacked on the counter. He began to fill them with wasabi-coated peas and Japanese crackers.

  “Why are you making yourself miserable?” He glanced towards the living room. “It’s so unnecessary.”

  “It’s your apartment, your party,” I hissed. “I’m simply a tenant, a guest.”

  Satomi came in to help, saw our standoff and started to back out. I crooked my finger at her. When she was before me, I said softly, “So, you were going to aid and abet my partner in adultery? No doubt you want to pull him down to your level.”

  “That’s enough,” Michael said. He thrust the bowls at Satomi and signalled for her to leave. Then he got drinks and followed her out.

  A silence had fallen over the party. They had heard our furious murmurs in the kitchen. “Japanese munchies,” Satomi cried gaily. The guests cheered and their conversations resumed, over-animated. I continued to stay in the kitchen getting drunk. My presence was painful to Michael and made the guests uncomfortable, but this was my home and I would do in it as I liked.

  Michael served dinner as soon as everyone had arrived, clearly wanting the evening to end quickly. As he went about the kitchen getting food ready, he showed no impatience that I was in his way, requesting politely that I move when he needed to get something from behind me. Satomi came to help, her smile strained. They exchanged instructions in sickbed voices.

  Finally, Michael announced dinner was served and the guests crowded around our dining table. Now they could see me through the kitchen doorway, leaning against the counter, arms folded, glowering at the cabinets. They helped themselves, glancing timidly in my direction, commenting softly on how appetizing everything looked.

  As soon as dinner was over, the students, also wanting the evening to end, presented their gifts to Satomi. She let out little yelps of delight and surprise over the bowls, mugs and books they had bought her.

  I was watching all this unnoticed from the kitchen doorway, and once the gift-giving was over, I came into the room. They fell silent. “It’s a beautiful night,” I said, raising my beer bottle to them, toasting the fine weather. “We should go for a walk.”

  “Yeah, hey, good idea,” someone said, and the rest mumbled politely.

  I went out on the balcony and slid the door shut. The babble of voices resumed, higher and louder.

  A mild breeze was blowing up from the sea; the temperature was in the mid-teens. As always on these first evenings of spring, the streets were crowded with cars and SUVs pumping out their music, the parking lots full along English Bay. Now I genuinely wanted to be down there and escape this apartment.

  I pushed open the balcony door and stumbled inside. “It’s fucking gorgeous,” I cried. “I’m going down to English Bay.”

  The guests gawped at me, then glanced at Michael.

  “Shivan,” he said pleasantly, “come and see the gifts Satomi has got.”

  I walked over and took a quick contemptuous look. “Very nice. If any of you want to join me, I’m heading down to the beach. I bet it’s warm enough to swim.”

  The guests laughed nervously.

  “Come on, you guys, you’re the real Canadians, not me. You should be the ones raring to take a spring dip. Let’s go down there and join the party instead of sitting around like a bunch of geriatrics.” I went to get my coat from the hall closet.

  The others watched me, not knowing what to do, glancing occasionally at Michael, who pretended to be absorbed in a book Satomi had received.

  “A walk sounds good,” he finally said.

  The visitors rushed to get their coats off the bed, grateful to be escaping our apartment.

  The beach at English Bay was crowded. Families walked along briskly, lovers strolled arm in arm or huddled under blankets behind large logs. An impromptu singalong had started, the participants seated in a circle, a teenage boy with a shaggy beard strumming a guitar, a woman beating a tambourine, a man in blond dreadlocks playing bongos.

  One of the students had brought along a joint, so the guests sat in the shelter of an unoccupied log and passed it among them. I wandered towards the shoreline, certain Michael would be watching me in case I might actually go for a swim. Yet when I reached the water’s edge, he had his back to me, purposely I felt, and was talking to one of the grad students and her husband. I turned to the water and observed it lapping against the sand. I took off my coat and threw it on the beach, then pulled off my sweater. Now I was wearing only my T-shirt.

  “Hey, dude,” a jogger said as he passed, “that’s crazy. Too cold for a swim, man.”

  I grinned and raised my hands, like an acrobat garnering applause before a stunt. He shook his head as he continued on. I pulled off the T-shirt.

  My naked torso attracted attention. People stopped to stare. “Oh my god,” a teenage girl whispered loudly to her friend, “that guy is out of his mind.”

  I whipped off my belt and flung it in the sand, then unbuttoned my trousers. But before I could slip them off, Michael was before me. “Put on your fucking clothes,” he cried, voice cracking with pent-up rage. He grabbed my arm and jerked it away from my pants. “Put your fucking clothes on and stop ruining my life.”

  Perhaps if he hadn’t said those particular words, I might have obeyed. Instead, I wrenched myself out of his grip and stumbled away. Keeping my eyes on him, I slid my trousers down to my ankles and stepped out, now wearing only boxer shorts and socks. His friends had joined him and they crowded around Michael as if he needed protection. “Shivan,” Satomi said, stretching out a hand to me, “come, put on clothes.”

  I backed into the water, smiling grotesquely. Michael started to pull off his shoes and socks.

  There was a dip beyond the water’s edge, and almost immediately I was waist deep, the waves bumping and nudging me, my socked feet unable to grip the sand. The water’s coldness was clenching and squeezing at my knees and thighs. I could feel a cramp coming on. If you keep going out, it will soon all be over, a voice in me whispered, and suddenly I was terrified, because I was seduced by this enticement and the oblivion it offered. Michael had seen me stop. He was no longer undressing, but waited in the still, attentive way one waits to reassure a timid animal. I was losing sensation in my legs. If I stayed in the water any longer, I would not be able to move my limbs. I panicked and struggled towards the shore.

  “You’re shivering,” Michael said kindly when I reached him, shaking his head as if what I had done was endearing and amusing. He bent and gathered my clothes, then held out each piece. I put them on, shaking.

  Seeing the crisis averted, people continued on their way or went back to what they had been doing. Satomi whispered something to the guests and they drifted up the beach, scattering in different directions to catch buses
or find cars.

  When we got back to our apartment, Michael ran me a hot bath, then sat on the closed toilet seat, watching me in the tub. I could tell what he longed for, and I longed for it too. I held out my arms. He took off his clothes and crept into my embrace like some bedraggled thing craving shelter.

  Yet within a week we were fighting, and the cycle began again.

  29

  IN MY MOTHER’S LIVING ROOM, the first light of morning creeps under the sheers. Soon, she and David will be here to take me to the airport. Her bags are with mine by the door. I cross the length of the house to stand at the kitchen window and look out at the world revealing itself. The wind has picked up, blowing the accumulated dust of winter before it like a great sweeper. The grey cloud of dirt settles over the first greening grass, the buds of flowers in gardens. A cat lopes across the street, casual yet intent, sits on a stoop and licks itself furiously. A car draws near, starting and stopping in little spurts, and finally I see that it is the newspaper man. When he opens his door to fling a paper expertly at our neighbour’s step, a gust of Hindi film music blows out.

  I glance at my watch, then wash my Scotch glass and put it away.

  In my grandmother’s home it will be four in the afternoon now and the heat will have finally begun to relax its grip on the day, the evening unfurling with a sigh, a breeze starting in from the sea, the light suddenly soft and golden across walls. If I was lying on my bed there, I would see through my window the fronds of a stunted coconut tree begin to shake themselves loose and dance, intoxicated. It would be the time for cups of tea. The pastry man would be weaving his way down our street on his bicycle, ringing his bell continuously, a sound like the chirp of a chipmunk. The silver box perched on his rear carrier is filled with long sugar rolls, spicy fish buns, cutlets and patties, cakes with extravagantly pink desiccated-coconut icing. The neighbour a few doors down, a failed concert pianist, has started her daughter practising scales—picked out haltingly, over and over—teacher clapping to keep her pupil on beat, crying out orders as if the two of them are on parade. A perennial game of cricket has begun on the road, played by the sons of boys who played on this same road in my youth, something poignant and lingering about the thwack of bat on ball. Servants are gossiping over fences before starting dinner, snatches of sound from their various radios borne by the wind, making it seem as if a single person is searching the dials of a radio.